Ulrike Fremdli. When he met her the previous – and only – time, her husband had just been murdered. He made a rapid calculation and concluded it must have been in February. Last February – that chilly, godforsaken month. The blessed time of hopelessness, as Mahler used to call it. They had been sitting in an ordinary, cosy living room in an ordinary, cosy terrace house in Loewingen. He and Ulrike Fremdli, newly widowed. He had asked her the usual, clinically disconsolate questions and he had been impressed by the way in which she handled them.
Handled both the questions and the grief and shock she must have been feeling.
When he left her, he had realized that she was a woman he could easily have fallen in love with. Thirty years ago. At the time when he was still capable of falling in love. He had thought about it quite a lot afterwards. Yes, it certainly would have been possible.
If he hadn’t already given away his life to somebody else, that is.
And now she was standing here, booking a holiday. Ulrike Fremdli. Fifty and a bit, he would have thought. With her hair recently dyed even more chestnut brown.
There were certain patterns…
He took a queue ticket and sat down on the narrow tubular-steel armchair behind her, without greeting her. Of course, there was no reason to think that she would remember him as clearly as he remembered her. Or would even remember him at all, come to that. He waited. Shifted the toothpick to the right side of his mouth and tried to look as if he wasn’t listening.
As if he were just a very ordinary customer wanting to book a package holiday. Or an unusually sweaty part of the furniture.
But he certainly was listening. Ears cocked. At the same time he could feel a worrying sensation beginning to nag at him. Both in his gut and behind his larynx, where he had long been convinced that the soul was situated. In his case, at least.
Because Crete was what was being discussed. As plain as a pikestaff, he’d realized that right away. The attractively sun-tanned travel agent was talking about Theseus and Ariadne and the Village of Widows. About Spili and Matala and the Samaria Gorge.
And now about Rethymnon.
Chief Inspector Van Veeteren gulped. Took out his handkerchief and wiped the back of his neck again. Despite the slow-moving fans whisking the air under the ceiling, it was as hot as a baking oven.
‘You mustn’t underestimate the currents,’ stressed the bronzed young man.
Certainly not, Van Veeteren thought.
‘The Christos Hotel,’ suggested the young Adonis. ‘Simple, but well run. Situated in the middle of the old town… Only a minute’s walk to the Venetian harbour.’
Ulrike Fremdli nodded. The demigod smiled.
‘Leaving on the first, then? Two weeks?’
Van Veeteren felt an attack of giddiness rising up inside him. An almost pubertal feeling of dizziness. He put down the magazine and stood up quickly. I must get a breath of fresh air, he thought. Hell’s bells! I can feel a heart attack coming on.
Out in the street he paused under a lime tree. Spat out the toothpick and bit his bottom lip hard. Confirmed that this did not wake him up, and hence he had not been dreaming.
For Christ’s sake, he thought. I’m too old for this sort of thing.
He bought a bottle of mineral water at the newspaper stall and drank it all in one gulp. Then paused for another minute, thinking things over. It would be silly to get carried away, he told himself.
But it would be even sillier to ignore all the signs that are dangled in front of me. By the way, seeing as I’m here…
He emerged into the sunshine again. Walked quickly and jauntily over the square and turned into Kellnerstraat. Passed by a few second-hand bookshops before stopping at the corner of Kupinski’s Alley. Wiped the sweat from his brow and looked hard at the over-full display window.
Carefully, as if studying a poker hand.
Yes, the notice was still there.
Assistant required.
Partnership a possibility.
F. Krantze
It must have been hanging there now for – he worked it out – six weeks. He breathed a sigh of relief. Yes, half the summer must have passed since he first saw it.
He hesitated again before slowly walking back towards the square. Chewed at a toothpick and contemplated the Art Nouveau facades dating from the turn of the century. Weather-beaten, but still looking good. The leafy lime trees casting shade over the pavements. Yorrick’s pavement cafe on the corner. Winderblatt’s directly opposite. A large, panting St Bernard dog under one of the tables, its tongue reaching out as far as the kerb.
Oh yes, he thought. I sure as hell could see myself living here.
And by the time he got into his car, he had made up his mind.
If that notice is still there in August… well, I’ll go ahead and do it.
It was as easy as that.
It was then even easier to drive hell for leather back home to Klagenburg, pickup the telephone and order a two-week package holiday to Rethymnon, Crete… the Christos Hotel, which had been recommended to him by a good friend. Single room. Departing 1 August, returning on the 15th.
When he hung up, he glanced at his watch. It was 11.40, 17 July.
Not much point going to the police station before lunch, he decided, and tried to feel a little regret. Didn’t succeed very well. He wandered around his flat, fanning himself with yesterday’s Allgemejne. Not that it did much good. He sighed. Pulled off his sticky shirt, fetched a beer from the fridge and inserted a Pergolesi CD into the hi-fi.
Life? he wondered.
Arbitrary or well-planned?
3
‘The heat makes people less inclined to commit crimes,’ said deBries.
‘Don’t talk crap,’ said Reinhart. ‘The facts are the precise opposite, of course.’
‘Meaning what?’ wondered Rooth, with a yawn.
‘They just don’t have the strength,’ said deBries.
‘Of course they do,’ said Reinhart. ‘The hotter it gets, the lower the defences – and human beings are criminal animals at heart. Read The Stranger. Read Schopenhauer.’
‘I haven’t the strength to read anything,’ said Rooth. ‘Not when it’s as hot as this, for fuck’s sake.’
‘And people’s urges become more urgent,’ said Reinhart, lighting his pipe. ‘No wonder. Just look at all those women running around town half-naked – it’s not surprising that frustrated studs throw their inhibitions aside.’
‘Frustrated studs?’ said Rooth. ‘What the hell…?’
‘Hmm,’ muttered deBries. ‘Sex murderers will obviously be inspired to act in weather like this – but at least we haven’t had any such cases yet.’
‘Just wait a bit,’ said Reinhart. ‘The ridge of high pressure is only four days old. Where the hell’s the chief inspector, by the way? I thought we were supposed to have a meeting after lunch. It’s nearly half past one.’
DeBries shrugged.
‘He’s probably playing badminton with Munster.’
‘No,’ said Rooth, tucking into an apple. ‘Munster was in my office a few minutes ago.’
‘Don’t speak with your mouth full,’ said Reinhart.
‘He’d say next to nothing if he didn’t,’ said deBries.
‘Shut your trap,’ said Rooth.
‘Exactly,’ said Reinhart.
The door opened and Van Veeteren entered, followed by Munster.
‘Good morning, Chief Inspector. Slept well?’
‘I was somewhat delayed by the heat,’ Van Veeteren explained as he flopped down onto his desk chair. ‘Well?’
There was a moment’s silence.
‘What do you mean by “Well?”?’ asked Rooth and took another bite.
Van Veeteren sighed.
‘Report!’ he said. ‘What the hell are you all planning to do? Reinhart first. The Vallaste pyromaniac, I assume?’
Reinhart knitted his brow and sucked at his pipe. Nodded rather vaguely. The arson attack in Vallaste had been occupying the police for two and a half years now, and the investigation had been put on ice several times; but when there was nothing else of a serious nature going on, he usually unfroze it again. He had been the officer in charge, and it was his reputation that suffered as long as the culprit remained at large.